


Hear My Soul Speak

by maricharde



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M, Shakespeare, actor Bard, director Thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricharde/pseuds/maricharde
Summary: A mysterious new director is hired to take over the production of Macbeth. Everyone except Bard seems to know something about him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, what would I do without @LittleLynn? thank you for your patience and for helping me with this, you're simply the best.

_“Hear my soul speak._  
_The very instant that I saw you did_  
_My heart fly to your service, there resides_  
_To make me slave to it, and for your sake_  
_Am I this patient log-man.”_  
  
William Shakespeare, “The Tempest”, 3.1

 

 

“Did you hear?”

“Did they tell you already?”

“He wouldn’t recast, right?”

“You’re kidding me.”

The small theatre has been full of gossip and excitement for the past few days. Their artistic director disappeared without a trace about a week ago, and nobody misses the lewd, lazy man. He and his habit of always keeping a bottle of brandy nearby was a nightmare to deal with. But finding a replacement so shortly before the beginning of the summer season was nothing short of a miracle.

The miracle’s name turned out to be Thranduil Greenleaf.

The fact that he agreed to take up the position instantly was a surprise just as shocking as the fact that he picked up the phone at all.

In the nearby pub his mysterious persona is being discussed now over the pints of cold beer, in a dim, smoky room. The actors are sitting around a shabby table which is always reserved for them, listening to Feren, who’s enjoying having everyone focused on him for once.

“Yeah, I knew him years ago. I was in “Hamlet” with him.” he makes a pause, taking a long sip of his beer. “Well, kind of. He was the prince, I was Horatio’s understudy.” he continues with a wry smile. “I never even had a chance to get on stage.”

“Wait, you were in _Hamlet_ together? That _Hamlet_?” Kili leans forward in excitement, his eyes open wide. He’s the youngest actor in the troupe, and the others treat him warily. Not exactly because of his age, but rather because of his family connotations - he’s a nephew of the artistic director in their rival theatre, and everyone suspects he has hidden motives. But Kili is in love, and here to act by the side of his fiancée, and he pays attention to nothing else.

Feren nods, tapping the ash off his cigarette. The ashtray is shaped like a skull.

“Is anyone going to explain what the big deal is?”

Everyone’s eyes turn to Bard, who’s been sitting in his corner quietly up until now. He’s one of the few present who have been with this theatre since there was nothing but a tent. The feeling of hatred between him and the previous director was mutual and famous.

“You don’t know Thranduil Greenleaf?” Kili asks in disbelief after a moment of stunned silence.

“The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why are you all so excited.” Bard shrugs.

“Alright, listen.” Tauriel, Kili’s fiancée, and one of the brightest shining stars in the theatre, sets her beer aside and leans closer to Bard. “This guy used to be a fantastic actor. All the theatres wanted him, he played all the big roles, had fans and everything. Until about six years ago…”

“He snapped.” Feren cuts in, and Tauriel throws him an annoyed side glance. “It was during _Hamlet_ , I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He just left the stage in the middle of a monologue. He came back the next day, still in costume, and announced he was quitting.”

“Not only still in costume, but also with a black eye and handcuffs hanging from his wrist, I believe.” Tauriel finishes. “Nobody’s heard from him since.” She adds in a conspiratorial tone of voice, as if she was telling a scary story by a bonfire, wiggling her fingers in the air.

“Right.” Bard raises his eyebrows skeptically. “So we’re getting a director just as unreliable as the last one. Sounds great.” he sits back, crossing his arms.

“Well, people called him a genius once.” Feren replies lightly, standing up. “Let’s hope he’s still got it. Who wants another beer?”

Bard leaves the pub early, like he usually does, and worried, like he often is. He is supposed to play Macbeth this season. And he has no illusions - this theatre is not a great one, not anymore, if it ever was. They had an artistic director that cared only about his measly salary and his bottle of brandy. They have an executive director who is always busy and away. They have nobody to take charge and push them in the right direction, and all of this slowly destroyed the theatre’s reputation. But Macbeth is still a play that’s dear to Bard’s heart, and he’s not sure he can stand seeing it staged badly.

At home he is welcomed by excited hugs and yelling from his younger kids.

“We have new neighbours!”

“They have a cat!”

“And so many things!”

He adds his coat to the giant pile of various jackets in the small, dark hallway, and proceeds to the kitchen, listening patiently to Tilda and Bain’s babbling as they follow him, jumping and interrupting each other. Sigrid is making tea, and she hands Bard one steaming mug.

“It’s just some guy and his son.” she explains calmly, a stoic contrast to her siblings. Her hair is braided, and she’s wearing a fluffy bathrobe. “I think the boy is about Tilda’s age. They were bringing in boxes all day.”

“Maybe he’ll play with us!” Tilda’s eyes sparkle with excitement. Bain looks hopeful too -  there are barely any kids in the neighbourhood, so Bard’s children usually end up spending time in each other’s company.

Bard considers briefly if he should go and introduce himself, but decides against it. He’s tired, and he bets the new neighbours are too. He retreats to his bedroom with the tea, after making sure the kids brush their teeth and get to bed. He tries to read, but he’s not able to focus on the book, with thoughts about the theatre and mysterious directors distracting him, so eventually he gives up and turns off the light.

The first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning is a large white cat sitting on his windowsill. He rubs his eyes, wondering if he might be still asleep, but when he opens them the cat is still there.

“Hello.” he says to it sleepily. The cat, unsurprisingly, does not answer. “Where did you come from?” Bard adds, lifting himself up on his elbows.

The cat continues to just stare at him in silence. Bard remembers what Tilda said about the new neighbours having a cat, and wonders if this is the same animal. He sits up, and as soon as he does, the cat jumps down from the windowsill in one swift motion, disappearing as if it was never there.

Bard puts his feet on the cold wooden floor and stretches, and then lazily walks up to the window. Outside he finds a warm, peaceful Sunday. It’s still early, but he doesn’t feel like going back to sleep. And the grass looks like it could use cutting.

He stalls for about an hour longer. He makes himself a huge cup of tea and drinks it slowly, reading old newspapers in the messy, sun-flooded kitchen. He particularly likes the food section. It’s about half past nine when he decides there’s no point in doing nothing any longer. He hums happily, taking the lawnmower out of the shed.

Barely five minutes after he turns the mower on, the neighbour’s door slam open, and Bard freezes seeing the man that appears on the doorstep.

He’s tall and barefoot, and his hair is tied into a messy bun, with long strands framing his face. He stands still for a moment, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as if it blinded him, and then he looks straight at Bard. He begins walking towards him, and now Bard notices the high cheekbones and dark eyebrows, and he’s pretty sure if looks could kill he’d be dead by now.

“It’s a Sunday morning.” the man says in a low, tense voice once he’s close enough to be heard, and Bard’s warm words of welcome stick in his throat. His eyes are blue, the most intense blue Bard has ever seen, cold and unnerving. “Can you stop the noise?” he continues through gritted teeth, raising his hand. Somehow, standing here in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he still looks both beautiful and scary, and Bard does not like it one bit.

“It’s… it’s almost ten.” he replies, as calmly as he’s able to, not calmly enough. The other man raises his eyebrows, as if Bard insulted him. Bard wonders briefly if blood will be spilled.

“Just do this later.” the man orders finally, and turns around before Bard has a chance to respond. He walks back to his house, taking longs steps through the overgrown grass, and shuts the door behind him with a loud noise, gone as suddenly as he appeared.

Bard stays alone, and takes a deep breath. He’s not exactly sure what just happened, except that his good mood is ruined, and that his new neighbour is an asshole. A handsome asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. He abandons the lawnmower and escapes to the house, haunted by the feeling that he did something wrong.

He spends the rest of the day cooking, cleaning, and reading. He re-reads _Macbeth_ for a billionth time, adding more scribbles and notes to those that are already on the margins of the worn out book. The edges are frayed, some of the corners folded, and some of the pages wrinkled and stained - a sign of a book read many times by many people.

In the afternoon he is interrupted by Tilda and Bain. They run inside from the garden through the kitchen door, tracking mud on the floor, and for some reason they are both wearing green towels around their shoulders.

“Da, can Legolas come to our house?” Tilda blurts out, grabbing onto the armrest of Bard’s chair. Her cheeks are red and her hair a mess. Bard wonders what exactly were they doing all day. He recalls that yesterday they were hunting a dragon.

“Legolas?” he repeats, closing the book.

“That new kid.” Bain explains. He looks just as disheveled as his sister, with an added bonus of scraped knees.

“Oh. Well if his parents say it’s fine, sure.” Bard shudders internally remembering the dreadful morning meeting with the boy’s father.

Tilda and Bain run back out to the garden, and Bard follows them. The simplistic toy bows he made for them last Christmas are lying on the ground, and shooting targets are drawn with chalk on the picket fence. _Robin Hood_ , Bard thinks to himself. _That explains the towels_.

A small boy is running towards them across the lawn, but there’s no asshole neighbour in sight. The boy looks rather small and skinny, but not sickeningly so, has blonde hair that reach his shoulders, and blue eyes just like his father’s. His clothes look clean and expensive, and he sticks out as different next to Bard’s kids and their messy demeanor.

"Dad said okay." he says, smiling widely, and then "Hello." turning to Bard in that dignified, serious way only kids can pull off. "My name is Legolas." he adds, and shakes Bard's hand slowly. All the kids soon disappear into Bain’s room. When Bard checks on them a bit later, they are conducting a battle between Bain’s plastic soldiers and Tilda’s teddy bears. The bears seem to be winning.

A good few hours pass, and finally when Bard begins wondering if Legolas’ father even cares about where his child is, there is a knock on the door. When Bard opens it, he’s not surprised to see his new neighbour.

His hair is let down now, and for a moment Bard is taken aback by how long it actually is and how soft it looks. A faint smell of woody cologne reaches Bard’s nose, and then a nervous feeling settles in his stomach when their eyes meet.

“I’m here for Legolas. He should get home.” the man says simply. He is stoically calm this time, and Bard finds it impossible to read anything from his face, except a vague threatening feeling that he could stop being calm any moment. It makes Bard feel uneasy, so he tries to hide it with a smile.

“Sure. Come in.” he steps away from the door. “Kids!” he shouts, turning around towards the back of the house.

“Coming!” Three voices yell back. He turns back to his guest, who closed the door and is now looking around, and Bard is suddenly painfully aware of the wallpaper peeling off in the corner, the ridiculous pile of boots on the floor, the stains left by Tilda’s dirty hands on the wall some time ago. He looks at his guest searching for disapproval in his expression, but there is only cold indifference, and dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” The man says suddenly, breaking the dragging silence, and the corners of his mouth rise slightly in a faint shadow of a smile. “I’m not a morning person.” he adds.

“That’s… fine.” Bard replies, surprised by the apology. He’s tempted to add something along the lines of how it’s not a reason to act like a douchebag, but something makes him hold his tongue. “My name is Bard, by the way.” He adds instead.

Before he has a chance to learn his guest’s name, three pairs of feet stomp loudly through the corridor, and a second later Legolas runs into his father’s open arms.

“Hey. Time to go home.” The man’s voice is soft when he hugs Legolas and takes his hand, and the boy doesn’t even try to argue, waving goodbye to Bard’s kids. “Thank you.” The man says the last two words looking straight at Bard, who nods and smiles again in reply.

Closing the door Bard has an unsettling feeling that his new neighbour means nothing but trouble.

***

“Did you have fun?” Thranduil asks his son as they’re walking the short distance back to their house. Legolas grins and nods vigorously.

“Can I play with them tomorrow too?” he asks, squeezing Thranduil’s hand.

“If mr Bard agrees.” Thranduil thinks about his new neighbour, and for a short moment allows himself to dwell on the way he smiled, and the charming lines around his eyes when he did, before dismissing the thought as silly. He wonders if he made an irreparably bad impression on the man this morning. And then he reminds himself he does not care.

He listens patiently to Legolas talking about what they did today as they cross through the patio. The house had stood empty for a long time, and the garden is in terrible shape. The grass is tall and dry, and there are weeds everywhere. Thranduil wants to plant flowers instead.

The inside of the house is bright and warm, and mostly empty. Legolas’ room is the only one fully furnished. Thranduil spent most of today putting the finishing touches on it, including sticking little glow-in-the dark stars to the ceiling, and his back is hurting now from the time spent in an uncomfortable position. But most of the other things they brought with them are still unpacked, and the only two pieces of furniture in the living room are a huge, soft couch, and a half-built coffee table.

“I’m hungry.” Legolas pouts. Thranduil disappears into the kitchen, and Legolas opens one of the boxes filled with books. When Thranduil comes back with a plate of sandwiches he finds his son on the couch with an old copy of _In Search Of the Castaways_.

He sits down next to him, sinking comfortably into the soft cushions. Their cat joins them quietly, and curls into a ball in in Thranduil’s lap. Thranduil reaches for the worn out _Macbeth_ lying on the floor next to the couch. He knows the play by heart and could quote dialogue woken up in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t change the fact that tomorrow is going to be stressful.

The artistic committee scheduled a meeting for 9:15 in the morning and he already cringes at having to wake up so early. Then there’s the theatre’s executive director, a man who Thranduil has known for years, and he’s not sure a more annoying person exists in the whole world. And then there are, of course, the actors. He’s not concerned with making them like him, but he’s hoping they will be able to at least do their job and follow orders.

He’s beginning to doubt his decision, and the feeling of uncertainty is weighing down on him. It’s not like he has anything better to do, but when he abandoned the theatre years ago it was for a reason. And though the bad memories faded with time, so did the good ones, and only a mix of boredom and nostalgy made him agree to take the position. A tiny voice in the back of his head begins to make him question if that’s good enough.

He hopes it will all be at least better for Legolas than the life they led up until now, wandering aimlessly from one place to another, never staying for too long. He’s glad there are kids next door. His thoughts drift back to their father and Bard’s face appears before his eyes. Everything about this man seemed warm and inviting, and Thranduil carefully considers the idea of getting to know him better.

Legolas puts the book away and yawns, stretching his little arms above his head.

“I’m going to sleep.” he announces, sliding off the couch.

He pets the cat, and kisses Thranduil on the cheek, and then leaves for his bedroom. He comes back half a minute later, jumping and shouting about how pretty his room looks, and it’s the highlight of Thranduil’s day.

Once left alone Thranduil stands up to reach for a blanket and turns off the lights. Sleep doesn’t come for a long time, and he ends up waking up feeling exhausted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, in which a babysitter is fired, some flowers are planted, and the actors suffer.

Next morning Bard can hear his neighbour’s car take off with screeching tires sometime around nine. For a moment he wonders what is so important, and feels sorry for whoever has to confront him so early in the morning. 

There is a table reading scheduled for later today. The weather is incredibly hot, but heavy clouds are gathering in the distance, and the air is stuffy and humid. The actors are slowly arriving in the theatre, heading straight to the room where tables and chairs are put in a square. Little cards with the characters’ names on them mark everyone’s places.

Bard finds the one that says “Macbeth” by the seat exactly opposite of the one reserved for the mysterious director. Sitting down he listens absent-mindedly to the chatter in the room. Table readings with their previous director were usually an unproductive chore. Bard prepares for the worst just in case. 

It takes him a moment to realize that the whole room suddenly went silent. He raises his eyes towards the door. The executive director just walked in - as usual, he looks like he’s in a rush, and his beard has grown at least an inch since they last saw him. But that’s not the reason Bard’s mouth drop open in shock, and not why his heartbeat quickens. The reason for that is that the person walking behind Gandalf is Bard’s new neighbour.

His hair is in a ponytail this time, and he’s wearing an elegant shirt ironed to perfection. A leather bag is hanging from his shoulder, and he doesn’t look at anyone, holding his chin high and his back straight. Bard holds his breath as he walks past him. 

Gandalf stands at the top of the table with hands on his hips and clears his throat. 

“Hello, everyone.” he gives them a quick smile. “I’m just here for a moment to wish you all good luck and introduce your new director. Please welcome Thranduil Greenleaf.”

He gestures towards Thranduil, and the latter bows his head slightly to the sound of weak applause. Bard watches him in anticipation, waiting to be noticed, and then looks away as soon as their eyes meet, cursing in his head. 

Gandalf meanwhile takes a glance at his phone and excuses himself, leaving the actors alone with Thranduil, and they know already they won’t see him for days again.

“Hello.” Thranduil speaks finally, his deep voice seemingly loud in the dead silence of the room, and everyone’s eyes turn to him. “It’s good to be here. Let’s begin.” he adds simply, and that seems to be the end of the welcoming speech.

He sits down, and the actors exchange uneasy glances. Thranduil reaches into his bag, and takes out a copy of Macbeth and a pair of round, thin-rimmed glasses. 

“Does anyone have any questions?” He looks around the room again, and everyone turns away immediately as if they were children afraid to be called upon in class. Except Bard, who this time withstands the gaze of the cold blue eyes, and it's Thranduil who looks away first. 

“Good. A few words about the play then.” He adds a fountain pen and a black notebook to the pile of things growing in front of him. “I expect you all to know your characters well. We will keep the decorations simple and put the focus on the characters. Open your scripts”. 

The sound of rustling pages spreads through the room. The actors throw careful glances at Thranduil, waiting for his next move. He puts on his glasses and sits back comfortably with his legs crossed, notebook in hand and a pen ready to write. It’s a pose of a man who’s well aware everyone is looking at him: elegant, careful, planned out. A thought goes through Bard’s head that he has very nice hands.  

“First Witch, whenever you’re ready.” Thranduil says finally, his eyes stuck to his own copy of the play. They begin reading, and Bard’s eyes keep coming back to Thranduil, looking for any sign of approval or lack of it on his face. But he finds nothing again, even though not a minute seems to pass without Thranduil writing something down in his notebook. 

“We are starting the rehearsals on Thursday.” He says simply once they're done. “Please come prepared. And you…” he looks at the witches over his glasses, and they freeze instantly like a deer in headlights. “You are not comic relief, don't act like one. Next, Lady Macbeth…”

He proceeds to point out mistakes, and almost everyone gets their share of “change that” and “don't do this”. They all nod silently and breathe out with relief when Thranduil turns his attention to someone else. And then he packs his things in silence and leaves without another word, and everyone starts talking at once as soon as the door closes. 

Bard jumps in his seat when Tauriel suddenly appears behind him out of nowhere. 

“Well, I know one thing.” She whispers loudly straight into his ear. “He’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

Bard doesn’t answer. He’s having a hard time figuring out how he feels about the whole situation. Having this guy as a neighbour is one thing, seeing him all the time in the theatre too seems at the moment like a direct threat to Bard’s peace of mind.

A loud clap of thunder rips through the sky, and rain begins to pour heavily as he’s walking towards the nearest bus stop. It takes seconds to get him soaking wet. The bus stop does not have a roof, so he just stands next to the useless bench. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to shield himself from the sudden cold. 

He thinks about the table reading, and about what Tauriel and Feren told him about their new director. Bard decides they were right about him being a good actor. His thoughts keep going back to the way Thranduil spoke and looked, his cold voice and spot-on comments. He is picking on his fingernails unconsciously, trying - and failing - to focus on something else. 

A familiar car pulls in front of him.

“I believe we are going in the same direction.” Thranduil says, leaning towards the open window. “Need a lift?” 

Just for a moment Bard considers saying no, just to see the reaction, to maybe witness the cool facade breaking again. But then he realizes how ridiculous that would be.

“Yeah. Thanks.” he smiles politely, getting into the car. The interior smells of pine, and the chairs are white faux-leather. Classical music is filling the awkward silence as they start driving. 

“Boccherini?” Bard says hesitantly, pointing towards the speaker. Thranduil nods in reply.

“How did you know?” He asks after a moment, eyes stuck to the road. He’s driving fast, and it’s beginning to make Bard feel uncomfortable. He grabs onto the door handle for safety. 

“My oldest used to play cello. She liked him.” He answers, remembering Sigrid’s old interest with a bittersweet feeling. Eventually they couldn’t afford the lessons and she dropped it without complaining. Bard still feels awful.

They stop at a red light. Thranduil is tapping out a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel as they wait.

“You in a hurry?” Bard asks, and he stops immediately, as if he was caught doing something improper. 

“The babysitter threatened to leave Legolas home alone if I’m not there in about four minutes.” He replies. The light changes to green and they start to drive again with screeching tires. “Needless to say, this was her first and last day in our house.” He adds, and Bard feels almost sorry for the girl. Almost.

“You know, my daughter used to watch kids. I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” he proposes. Thranduil takes a moment to reply, a moment so long Bard almost is sure his proposition was ignored.

“I’ll ask Legolas if he would like that.”

***

About a week later Thranduil stops in a local gardening shop. He cuts the overgrown grass and installs sprinklers to water it, and digs new patches.  He also puts a swing set in front of the house, and it’s not long before Legolas and Bard’s kids take turns to play on it. 

The three seem to spend every second they can together, using their summer holiday to roam around the neighbourhood, Sigrid supervising them less often than Thranduil would like. Suddenly Legolas begins to devour his breakfast in seconds, eager to go on another adventure, and comes back hours later, beaming, with scraped knees and torn clothes. Eventually Thranduil forces him to carry a cellphone, and send texts to prove he’s fine every two hours.

The rehearsals start, and the familiar restlessness creeps back into Thranduil’s life. It feels, surprisingly, like finding an old friend again. And if he ever thought the job would be undemanding, his own perfectionism ruins that expectation very quickly. He wants the play to be good, and spends hours planning and designing.

One thing he is still uncertain about is his Macbeth. Bard seems to be one of the few actors who knows exactly what he’s doing , and Thranduil genuinely cannot think of anything to change in his approach. Or of an excuse to talk to him more - and so he is left wondering what the hell is Bard still doing in this lousy theatre. 

He stays up late at night, staring at the ceiling, making lists of things that need to be taken care of in his head. Choose a school for Legolas, talk to the scenographers, finish unpacking. His cat sleeps next to him, and the clock on the nightstand fills the dark room with loud ticking. One night it annoys Thranduil so much he rips out the batteries. He regrets it in the morning, when the alarm in his phone turns out not to be enough to wake him up and he arrives in the theatre an hour late.

“Overslept?” A familiar voice welcomes him in the hall. Bard is standing by the buffet with a mug of what Thranduil assumes to be coffee in his hand, and a subtle smile. 

“I hate mornings.” Thranduil mutters in reply. He doesn’t stop, not wanting to delay the rehearsal any longer. But he does take time to notice that the shirt Bard is wearing today definitely suits him.

“I know.” Bard follows him. “We’re all waiting for you.” 

Thranduil grits his teeth. This is the third proper rehearsal, and he’s ready for a bumpy ride.

***

The actors soon find out Tauriel’s words about Thranduil being a pain in the ass were prophetic. They are forced to repeat every scene countless times, and he corrects the way they speak, the way they put their feet on the ground, the way they hold their hands, every tiny detail. He asks them about their interpretations of their roles, and then he corrects those too. And the one time Kili forgets a line makes everyone vow to never repeat his mistake.

“Previews in two weeks.” Thranduil reminds them coldly whenever they dare to complain. “Do you want to do put on a bad show?” And nobody is brave enough to say anything more. “Again.”

And it’s not just the actors. He haunts the stage manager, spends hours with the special effects crew, pays frequent visits to the costume department, and it seems impossible to go anywhere without finding him already there, hands full of sketches and notes.

Feren tries to suggest to him once that this is not how they usually did things, that no one has put this much pressure on them in a very long time. “It’s not that kind of a theatre”, he says. Thranduil looks at him as if he was about to choke him, and everyone holds their breaths.

“It is now.” He says finally. “Act three, scene four.” He adds, turning away, his hair whipping behind him, and the actors drag themselves to the stage for what feels like a hundredth time today.

“ _ You know your own degrees. Sit down… _ ” Bard begins, watching Thranduil standing in the aisle with his arms crossed. Their eyes meet for a split of a second, and he quickly looks away.

He wonders why Thranduil never has any notes for him. He was only once asked to reconsider his approach to a scene - asked, not ordered, and everyone is starting to look at him suspiciously. On one hand he is glad to have some freedom. But he’s not sure if this privilege he’s been granted is a good thing, or if he’s being overlooked. The thought that it could be the latter almost hurts.

He’s seen Thranduil outside of the theatre, working in the garden, wearing worn out t-shirts and playing with Legolas, and Bard is still amazed by the contrast. The mask is interesting enough, but what’s behind it seems far more charming. 

“That’s it for today. Everyone’s released.” Thranduil says finally, and a sigh of relief goes through the room. The actors head towards the door, stretching and yawning and exchanging meaningful looks of “finally” and “thank God”.

“Kili, one more thing.” Thranduil calls out, and Kili stops and turns around slowly, struggling to hide his pained expression. But Thranduil isn’t even looking at him. “In the scene with Banquo’s ghost we won’t have you on stage, so don’t worry about that.” He continues, focused on organizing his notes.

Bard hears the last part of the sentence when he’s already behind the door, and he stops mid-step. For a moment he considers going back, but in the end leaves with everyone, eager to get home already.

During dinner Sigrid asks him why is he being so quiet. Thranduil’s idea won’t get out of his head. And no matter how many times he analyses it and considers it from various angles he reaches the same conclusion: it’s a dumb idea.

It’s late evening when finally on a sudden impulse he stands up and marches straight to Thranduil’s house to knock on his door.

Thranduil opens with a pencil stuck behind his ear and his glasses on. His hair is messy again, and he smells like coffee, and the light coming from inside the house surrounds him with a warm glow. He looks distracted, pulled out of something, and it takes him a moment to focus his eyes on Bard. 

“Bard? What time is it?” He frowns, and just for a split of a second Bard considers backing out.

“You can’t get rid of Banquo’s ghost.” He blurts out instead, and congratulates himself on his diplomacy in his head. Thranduil raises his eyebrows and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

“Of course I can. And I will.” He replies slowly. Bard runs his hand through his hair.

“No, listen…”

“Do you want to come inside and talk about this?” Thranduil interrupts him, a new tone in his voice, and staring at him Bard realises he looks actually amused. It makes him lose his train of thought. He drops his arms to his sides with a short sigh and nods.

“Take off your shoes.” Thranduil says turning around, and Bard follows him into a spacious living room. The white walls contrast with the dark hardwood floor. A large TV hangs on the wall, facing a couch and a cluttered coffee table. The rest of the room is filled with cardboard boxes, some opened, their content scattered around, some still taped shut.

“You still haven’t finished unpacking?” Bard asks in disbelief. Thranduil shrugs.

“There’s no time.” He picks up some dirty dishes from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears behind some door, and Bard sits down on the couch. A familiar white cat joins him, and curls into a ball next to him. He reaches out to scratch it behind its ears, and it purrs with content.

“What’s its name?” Bard asks when Thranduil comes back with two steaming mugs.

“Little John”. he replies, setting them down on the table, miraculously finding space between the stacks of books, papers and toys. “Legolas chose it. He loves Robin Hood.” he explains, when Bard gives him a puzzled look. He sits down on the opposite end of the couch, crossing his legs.

“I don’t drink coffee.” Bard says, pointing at the mugs.

“They’re both for me then.” Thranduil replies with a faint smile. “You wanted to talk?” he adds, and Bard remembers what he came here for.

“Yes. Banquo’s ghost.” he clears his throat. “He has to be on stage, it makes it easier for the audience to empathize with Macbeth.”

“I don’t want to make it easier for them.” Thranduil replies calmly, again with that amused tone in his voice. Bard crosses his eyebrows and takes a deep breath.

“They need to see what he sees to understand him.” he tries again, and Thranduil shakes his head.

“No, it’s your job to make them understand him.” He points a long finger at Bard. “If they don’t see the ghost, they see Macbeth’s madness. It’s your task to make them feel pity.”

“Pity?” Bard scoffs. “No, screw pity. Listen...”

The coffees go cold forgotten as the conversation continues, and then drifts to other topics. Cats, kids, schools in the neighbourhood, and it’s not long before Bard asks the question that has been on everyone’s minds for a while now.

“So what have you been doing before you moved here?” He says, doing his best to make it sound casual, trying to convince himself he’s not excited about being the one to know the answer.

“We have been travelling for a couple of years.” Thranduil answers, picking at a loose thread in his t-shirt. “Mainly Europe. I had inherited enough of a fortune to afford that.”

“Why stop now then?” Bard pushes carefully. “It must have been fun.”

“For a while it was. But I think Legolas could use some stability.” Thranduil replies, his voice softer with the mention of his son. “I want him to go to school, make friends. So I guess we are here to stay.” He adds with a shrug. “What about you though?”

“What about me?” Bard frowns for a moment. Thranduil is suddenly staring straight at him.

“You are a fantastic actor.” he says, and Bard blinks a few times in shock. Thranduil doesn’t seem to notice, or pretends not to, and continues without missing a beat. “What are you doing at this sad excuse for a theatre? You could have had a great career.”

Bard presses his lips together until they’re just a thin line. It’s one thing knowing something, it’s another to hear someone else say it out loud, especially Thranduil, especially like that.

“My father helped build it.” he replies finally. “It was his dream to run a theatre, and he was the first artistic director.” he smiles, remembering the humble beginnings. “It was just a tent and a group of friends at first. I was a kid, and dad would bring me along to rehearsals.”

“So… sentiment?” Thranduil asks, narrowing his eyes. Bard shakes his head.

“My wife liked living here, and for a while the theatre seemed to be doing great, even after dad left. We wanted to stick around. And then so many things happened.” Bard sits back, crossing his arms. “Mainly kids. They have friends here, school, this is their life. I didn’t want to force them to change it.” 

“Right.” Thranduil looks at him in silence. It lasts long enough to become awkward, and Bard clears his throat.

“I should go. It’s late.” He stands up from the couch. “Are you going to reconsider the ghost?” he asks, and Thranduil laughs.

“I’ll think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ just take it  
> P.S. @shadyanne/@LittleLynn is a saint and i love her  
> P.S.2 we'll get a bit further ahead with their relationship in the next chapter i promise


End file.
